One Year After Meteor
by Rijn
Summary: Stupid title, I know. Oh well. A reunion story that doesn't really include Sephiroth, a new threat to the Planet, or even an actual reunion. Confused? I'll bet.
1. An introduction! How original

Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy VII. By writing this story, I claim no ownership to the canon characters featured within, though I do own a few originals, and so on and so forth.

That said…on with the _show_! /Harold Ziegler. Zigler? D'oh. I don't own him either.

--

"—here, on Gilligan's Isle!" Click. "Isle!" Click. "Isle!" 

Annoyed, Vincent jerked his gaze away from the plexiglass window beside him and glared at Yuffie as she clicked her service button again. "Stop that," he said with uncustomary sharpness. "It's very annoying."

"Isle!" the ninja sang defiantly, ignoring him, and shaking his head he returned his attention to the faded tarmac, over which swarmed workers and baggage trains. She'd been singing—"caterwauling" was a more accurate term, Cid insisted, and Vincent was inclined to agree with him—ever since they'd boarded the plane; it was probably an attempt to appear unconcerned by the imminent take-off, but having spent the better part of two months on the Highwind with her, none of them were fooled.

Speaking of the Highwind...

"Why we're flying American Airlines in the first place is beyond me," Cloud remarked from the seat behind Vincent. "Whatever happened to the Highwind, Cid?"

"Err, yeah," the pilot responded uncomfortably, scratching the back of his head. "'s a long story..."

For reasons not immediately discernable, Yuffie twitched spastically. "Isle!" she crooned, this time spinning the dial that controlled the volume of her headphones for variety. "Isle!"

Cloud gave her a long look before returning his attention to Cid. "Well, it's not like we've anything else to do for the next eleven hours," he pointed out. "We've got time."

Slouching down in his seat, his face taking on an unhealthily red tone, Cid muttered something inaudible. Cloud cocked his head to one side.

"What was that?"

"$%&^!" Cid responded uncharitably. "Th' %&$#in' IRS came by and confiscated it last month, okay? #&^%!"

Still observing the personnel busily tending to the airstrip, Vincent stifled a slight grin of amusement. Then, however, Yuffie shouted in close proximity to his ear and all traces of a smile vanished from his expression.

He'd had enough. Standing jerkily, he swept his gaze along the length of the aisles, searching for an unoccupied seat. Finding none, he uttered a sound that was not unlike a growl.

"Does anyone want to trade seats?"

The exasperated query, so out of sync with his normal personality, elicited brief stares from the other members of AVALANCHE, but drew no offers. Nor were the other passengers cooperative, save for a small man nearer the back, who tentatively raised his hand after a moment of thoughtful contemplation. Vincent briefly regarded _his_ travel companion, a slovenly-looking man who was leafing through a Playboy magazine, and sighed quietly.

"Anyone _besides_ the man next to the slob?"

"Sir!" a flight attendant scolded as she hurried past with a clipboard. "Sit down, please! The plane's about to take off."

"Isle! —wha?" That brought Yuffie out of her song as swiftly as a splash of cold water to the face. Breaking off in mid-click, she twisted her head around to stare wide-eyed at the stewardess. "We're taking off?"

"In five minutes," the woman said sternly, the intercom crackling as if to punctuate her statement. "So please, buckle your seatbelts."

"Is this thing on?" a voice, distorted by static, said mildly from the speaker located at the front of the coach area. Another voice, presumably that of the co-pilot, said something inaudible in response. "Ahah," the captain stated triumphantly. "Got it, Fred. Fasten your seatbelts, folks, we're in for a long ride. Estimated time of arrival is eleven hours and forty minutes from now. Geez, you'd think they'd pay me overtime for this—"

Yuffie, who had fallen into a sort of stunned silence, reanimated abruptly at this. "Our captain is incompetent!" she shrieked, to the displeasure of those around her. "He can't even work the intercom! We're gonna crash over the ocean, I know it!"

"$%^&! Siddown, Yuffie," Cid growled, though she hadn't actually succeeded in jumping to her feet thanks to her belt.

"And you," she said hotly, whirling on him, "it's _your_ fault we're flying American, d'you know that? If you'd just paid your taxes like the IRS had been _telling_ you to, we'd still have the airship! Not," she added darkly, "that _that_ wouldn't have crashed sooner or later."

He shot bolt upright and bristled at the implicit insult, and Vincent, trying unsuccessfully to tune them out, made a mental note to book a different airline next year. They'd just met up at the plaza two hours ago, and Cid and Yuffie were already ripping into one another.

Why were they still associating with her, anyway? Shortly after Meteor had been destroyed she'd tried yet again to make off with their materia.

That chase had been epic.

A sudden forward movement captured his attention. The plane was taxiing onto the runway.

Yuffie made a noise akin to helium escaping from a balloon, the colour draining from her face. "We're moving!" she exclaimed in dismay.

"Yeah, we are," Cid agreed dryly, finally allowing the harassed flight attendants to push him back into his seat. "Full %^&#in' points for noticing."

The plane lifted into the air, the intercom clicked back on, and after a bit of fumbling and muffled cursing their pilot spoke again. "Departing for the Southern Islands. Sit tight, folks, we're predicting some turbulence this evening."


	2. Flashbacks and insane airline stewards

Disclaimer: The previous disclaimer still stands. I still do not own Final Fantasy VII, but nor does Square own Madai, Aaron, or anything else I came up with. And really, why should they want to?

.. scratch that, I may not even own Aaron. He's a joint character between I and a friend of mine, though I can't remember who came up with him.

Author's Note: Okay, original character alert. Not a self-insertion, though. For one, I'm not male.

And yes, I'm aware that Cloud is a bit of a doof in this chapter. I caved into peer pressure. ;.; Besides, I had to get rid of the plane somehow.

--

When Vincent had received the letter, he'd been more than a little sceptical about the location that had been suggested for the reunion. From what Tifa, who was in charge of organising the festivities, had said there would be everything from cook-outs to volleyball on the beach, neither of which he was particularly fond of.

The others, the letter said, had voted for the Southern Islands for one reason: the majority of the eastern continent had lately been experiencing an ongoing downpour of cold rain, and after half a winter of improbably high humidity and temperatures that fell beneath freezing on a regular basis, they had all been looking forward to the sun and warmth promised by the Madai Resort—by the time that December rolled around the weather had begun to depress even Vincent (if further depression was indeed possible in his case), and a little sun had sounded like a welcome change of pace.

He'd written back the same day solemnly expressing his reluctant agreement, left the note in the mail collection box, returned home, quietly closed the door behind him, and danced a small jig.

He was not dancing come the day of the flight.

From the beginning, it seemed, he'd been doomed to a bad trip: it had taken his cab driver the better part of an hour just to navigate through the excess side-roads into the actual parking lot, and twenty extra minutes of aimless driving to locate the right sector. As soon as he'd entered the concourse his ears had picked up the sound of vehement arguing—Cid and Yuffie, hunched over a map of the airport, trying to decide which escalator they should take to reach the baggage drop-off. Cloud had been nowhere in sight until about thirty minutes before they boarded: security had caught him trying to sneak the Ultima Weapon onboard, and (so said a smug Yuffie) they'd apprehended him on suspicion of terrorism. It had been cleared up eventually, but they'd still confiscated the sword.

Then Vincent's prosthetic arm had set the metal detector off.

"Sir!" the guard manning the checkpoint had said helpfully. "Please remove all metal items from your person and step through again."

When he'd pointedly held up his left arm, the officer had been at a loss as to what to do and had summarily detained them so that he could call his manager for assistance. The manager had promptly declared a thorough search of his bags, just in case, and another quarter of an hour was wasted as several employees rifled through his suitcases. It had been acutely embarrassing.

He hadn't been surprised when their flight was delayed—in a way, it was actually something of a relief, as he hadn't had the time to grab breakfast before he'd left. Unfortunately, there was only so long one could dawdle over a plate of toast, and he was eventually forced to return to the waiting area and endure the haze of nicotine that had permeated it as a direct result of Cid's continued presence. The man would not extinguish his cigarette for anyone, though airport security had certainly tried to make him after several complaints had been lodged about the smoke.

Cloud had shortly arrived in a predictably foul mood, _sans_ weapon but plus an exorbitant fine, to exchange greetings with Vincent. (The first words out of his mouth had actually been "Twenty thousand gil? We were out there saving the Planet while they hid in their houses and _rotted_—they should give me a discount!," but Vincent supposed that counted as a greeting.)

"$%^&, Cloud, that ain't half of what you shelled out for the &^%#in' villa," Cid, always the voice of reason, had pointed out logically, "and y'hardly ever use _that_ thing anymore."

"I do so," was the defensive growl. "I live there!"

"Which is why you had to travel for two weeks to get to the Costa del Sol airport, _riiiight_?" Yuffie had hastened to put in, fairly bobbing in her seat. Cloud'd glared fiercely at her, then sighed in defeat and shook his head, inciting the woman nearest him to change seats lest her eyes be poked out by his hair.

"I got a little lost, _okay_?"

As Cid and Yuffie roared with laughter, Vincent impatiently checked his watch.

It was going to be a long day.

-

"So, what've all of you been up to, anyway?"

Cloud's voice jolted him out of his thoughts. Looking round, he opened his mouth to speak, but Yuffie cut him off.

"He," she nodded towards Cid, who seemed to be dozing with his goggles pulled over his eyes, "has been evading taxes! Hah!"

Abruptly the pilot reanimated, his upper torso snapping towards the seat in front of him with shocking speed. "%^&#in' $^&%! I never %$#&in' did a thing! The $^%#s #^$%in' misfiled my claim! %$#& $#^% #^&% _$%^#_—$%^#in' %$&#!" he added as an afterthought, his voice rendered somewhat breathless as his belt caught his stomach and threw him back.

Cloud, not sure whether to be laughing or staring, simply rolled his eyes after a brief pause for thought. "Sorry I asked..." he muttered, turning a page of the catalogue sitting on his lap.

"Atoning," Vincent said quietly, once he was satisfied that he wouldn't be interrupted again. Cloud raised an eyebrow without looking up.

"Come again...?"

"Atoning."

"There's a friggin' switch," Cid grumbled, yanking irritably at his seatbelt. "Ow! That's makin' it worse. &^%#."

Shifting around in her seat, Yuffie hooked her arms over the back of the headrest and gave him the fisheye. "You're supposed to pull it the other way..."

"%$&^. I knew that. —%&^#! That's $#&%in' _tighter_!"

Yuffie snickered. "Looks like you're gonna need some help with that! Slave boy! Hey, slave boy! —yeah, you!"

The steward she'd summoned gave her a look of utmost rancour as he stalked over. "What is it _now_?"

"Get me a barf bag," the ninja commanded, slumping back into a "proper" sitting position as her skin began to acquire an unflattering green hue. "And make it snappy."

"Gah! %^&#—" Cid redoubled his efforts to free himself before she blew.

"Geez, Cid, just push the catch. See? Like this." Disregarding the momentum such an action would currently reap for the pilot, Cloud reached forward and pressed the "release" button on the buckle.

"No! Not while I'm—"

The resulting collision did not end prettily.

* * *

"Gee, I've never seen such a splatter before...is that even physically possible?"

"Best not to think about it."

"#$%^!" Cid agreed, wiping his face on his towel for the tenth time in half as many minutes. "Frick! All can I smell is onion rings."

"I believe I speak for all present when I say again that we could do without the details, Cid."

"What, and you think I %^&#in' can't? You're not the one who wound up nose deep in Yuffie's breakfast, Valentine!" He gave his brow another convulsive sweep with the rag and threw it towards the nearest unoccupied stewardess, who jumped back and wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Would it &^%$in' kill you to get me a _wet_ washcloth this time? And some %&$#in' soap too. %^&#. I think I got some in my hair!"

Cloud, Cid, and Vincent (along with most of the other passengers) had relocated to the back of the plane after Yuffie had relinquished the contents of her stomach to the frayed burgundy rug travelling the length of the aisle. Their server had not been fast enough in retrieving the barf bag, though whether it was Cid's fault for crashing into the back of her seat was open for questioning.

Currently, the ninja in question was perched, wrapped in a blanket, on a vacated seat (there were quite a few of them now) situated out of harm's reach; she was muttering continuously to herself, and trying _not_ to watch the cleanup crew.

The head steward was also muttering continuously to himself. His tone fairly oozed vehemence, however, and it bore no good will for the members of AVALANCHE as he strode stiff-backed towards them.

"Look, we're really sorry about all this—" Cloud began, doing his level best to sound contrite, but a raised hand forestalled him.

"You're _sorry_? Do you know what this is going to _do_ to our sales record, Mister Strife? No one is going to want to fly a company that has a history of _vomit_ spattered over the walls! American Airlines of Midgar could well be ruined thanks to this debacle! Ruined!"

"I think you're overreacting—"

"_Ruined_!" the steward fairly shrieked to drive the point home, then huffed and spun on his heel, turning his back to the other men. "I think," he added after a moment, when none of them spoke, "that you should get your parachutes."

Cloud once again attempted to speak. "We didn't bring any parachutes—"

"Huh! Figures," the steward grumbled, twisting around to face them again, poking his horn-rimmed spectacles further up the bridge of his nose. "Parasites til the very end! Leeches. _Filth_."

Cid stepped forward angrily, intent on giving the younger male a sound verbal flaying. "%^#& #$!% $%^#—" he started heatedly, then yelped and ducked back, rubbing furiously at his eyes, as the steward produced, seemingly out of nowhere, a bottle of industrial-strength cleaning solution and sprayed it at his face.

"Okay," Cloud said wonderingly. "I've seen combs, small mammals, and mega-phones used as weapons before, but that's gotta be the first time anyone's pulled a bottle of 409 on us."

"^&%#! You're not helping!" Cid snarled, keeping his face hidden in the palms of his hands even as he clomped in a small, agitated circle.

"I guess I'm not," Cloud assented with a shrug. "Ultimate End!" he stated decisively a moment later, and a collective groan rose from the others.

"No, not Knights of the—" 


	3. An interlude! Yay!

Disclaimer: Guess what I don't own? That's right: Final Fantasy VII! :D

Guess what I do own? Methusael! The random set techs! Myself!

Author's Note: Hooray for blatant self-insertions. :o Blame it on Sephiroth: I had to get him to cooperate somehow, and that entailed calling a rabid fangirl on him.

--

It was at this point, seconds before the plane was demolished by the Knights of the Round, that the scene froze. Condensing abruptly into a twenty-one inch square that showed the ominous form of King Arthur looming on the horizon, the image superimposed itself over the screen of the television that had appeared as if out of nowhere; in fact, an entire sitting room, complete with plush wing-backed chair and burning fireplace, had materialized in place of the plane's interior.

The wing-backed chair was anti-climatically unoccupied. After a moment, however, the door to the set swung open and a stagehand, clipboard under arm, forcibly shoved Sephiroth, _sans_ masamune, into the room. The silver-haired man was _not_ happy; he'd planted his feet against the floor and was attempting to resist, though his boots kept slipping against the polished wood.

"Impudence! I never agreed to this!"

Giving Sephiroth a last, enthusiastic push that nearly sent him stumbling into the end table by the chair, the stagehand grunted something unintelligible and retreated, slamming the door behind him. The Sephiroth in question righted himself, dusted off his trenchcoat, and glared after him.

"At least give my sword back!"

He ducked as the masamune came flying in stage right and spat a profane thanks before retrieving the blade. Snarling underneath his breath, he raised the sword and made as if to slice the television in half. A voice from off-screen interrupted his train of motion, however.

"Sephiroth!"

He glanced sharply towards the camera. Standing to the left of it, her number two pencil stabbing at the air to punctuate the statement, was the author. And beside her—Methusael.

Crap.

"Sephy!" chirped Methusael unnecessarily, bobbing on the pads of her feet. "Hi again! Rijn said I could stay even though I'm unthematic! Isn't it great?" She beamed; Sephiroth gave Rijn the wide-eyed stare of a deer caught in a car's headlights.

"Yeah, I told her she could stay on for a bit," smirked the writer, tucking the pencil into her pocket. "Simply put, you can either cooperate and take the bit part, or you can take Meth' out for dinner."

"Let's go to Red Lobster!" Methusael squealed, assuming that he'd consider her the lesser of two evils.

Sephiroth dove for the wing-backed chair so quickly that he left an after-image in the space he'd originally been occupying. "Casting Knights of the Round on a plane twenty thousand feet in the air?" he began, with scorn impressive for the three-second window in which he'd had to drudge it up. (Methusael wilted.) "It was necessary to advance the plot, I suppose, but that's an idiotic way to make a plane crash. She could've written in an engine failure or something."

"_Sephiroth_!" snapped Rijn. That hadn't been in the script.

He eyed her for a moment, weighing his options, then decided it was best not to run the risk of getting saddled with Methusael for the evening anyway. "—sorry. But at this rate, they won't _need_ a villain to try and kill them—they'll self-destruct on their own, and quite nicely. Not," he added darkly, "that that villain's going to be me this time. Really, what's a reunion story without _me_?"

"Better?" called one of the set techs. The others laughed. Sephiroth gave him a dirty look.

"Hahah. Bolt3."

He immediately regretted electrocuting the man, as not two seconds later Methusael, with Rijn's blessing, leapt towards him with a shriek of "Sephy-chan moo-moo kins!"

Whatever that meant.


	4. Plot advancement, or not

Disclaimer: Final Fantasy VII still does not belong to me. Wheeee.

--

It wasn't the sting of saltwater lapping against several abrasions on his face that dragged Cloud back to consciousness, nor the sensation of being pulled out of the ocean onto a solid surface—it was the succession of swift, smarting blows that were delivered to the sides of his face after his rescuers had ascertained that he was still alive.

"You idiot!" The voice—shrill and female—was vaguely familiar. "What were you thinking, summoning the Knights of the Round on the plane?! They chopped it to bits! We _did_ crash, and it's all your fault! I oughta—hey!"

The shadow that had fallen over him abruptly withdrew, and grudgingly he opened his eyes, wincing as the sun dazzled them.

He was on an inflatable raft of some kind, judging by the squishy orange walls positioned to either side of him. Frowning, he rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself up to his knees. Looking round, he saw that the source of the voice—Yuffie—had been subdued by a pokerfaced Vincent; Cid was sulking at the prow of the boat, apparently deaf to the world. His back to the group, a strange man was seated by the far wall, grumbling angrily underneath his breath.

"Sit down, Yuffie. You'll overbalance the boat."

This statement was fairly contradictory, as Vincent himself had risen to his feet to pull her away from their dubious leader. Yuffie, however, chose not to remark upon this fact as, muttering, she yanked her arm out of his grasp and stalked towards the bow of the small craft. (En route she stumbled on the yielding floor and nearly capsized the raft, much to the chagrin of the strange man—he reanimated with a squeal and barked out an invective that drew a surprised look from Cid.)

Cloud meanwhile leaned against the partition nearest him and, shrugging his left arm out of his sleeve, began to wring out the fabric. Underneath the sun, it was already starting to dry and cake up with salt. He scowled, then paused and glanced at Vincent as the older male sunk back onto the floor. The man should have been as bedraggled as he was. There was no trace of saline on either his clothing or his hair, however, and he did in fact appear to be perfectly groomed.

For that matter, so did everyone else.

Blinking furiously, he poked his arm back through his sleeve and snapped his fingers to attract the attention of the others. "Err...this might sound an insignificant question given our current situation, but...how are you guys _clean_ right now?"

"Insignificant, hell yes!" snorted Cid, turning halfway to glance back at him, then shrugged. "Aaron over there waved his hands and did some kinda ritual. Said somethin' about cleansing us."

"We," the strange man, now identified as Aaron, sniffed, "were _filthy_."

Cloud's brow furrowed. "Hey, wait. I know you!" he said sharply, eyes narrowing. "You're that flight attendant that wanted to chuck us out of the plane!"

Bristling, Aaron swung around to glare at him. "Head steward! Head steward!" he cried indignantly, his voice cracking on the last word. "_Not_ a mere flight attendant!"

"Whatever. It's _your_ fault we're in this mess!"

"Are you kidding? _I_ didn't summon the knights that ripped the plane apart. So, no. It's _your_ fault, not mine, and don't you _dare_ try to shove the blame off on me." Cloud opened his mouth to protest, but Aaron had already turned his back, pulling his legs up to his chest and settling his chin on his knees with an air of finality.

".. right," Cloud said after a pause, glancing imploringly at Cid. "Where'd the boat come from?"

"I found it!" Yuffie interrupted smugly. "It was floating around with the bodies and bits and pieces of the plane. It's one of the emergency life-rafts they kept onboard, I guess. And it's _mine_, so don't even think about making off with it."

".. Yuffie. We're in the middle of the ocean. Do you honestly think I could steal it if I wanted to?"

"You _could_ toss me overboard in the middle of the night!" she said defensively, then paused and squinted at him. ".. o_ho_. Was _that_ what you were planning, then?"

Cloud looked to the others for help, but none was forthcoming; Aaron obviously wasn't about to speak in his defence, and Vincent appeared to have tuned them out. Cid was listening attentively, though he was snickering—there wasn't much assistance to be found there. "No! God, Yuffie—"

"Don't lie to me!" she snapped, the squint evolving into a glower. Then, inexplicably, she announced in a thick Texan accent: "That's my raft! I don't know you!"

Before he had time to wonder at the relevance of this statement, she'd jabbed a green materia at him and shrieked: "Stop!"

As Cloud froze, Aaron glanced over his shoulder and chuckled darkly. "Serves you right," he muttered underneath his breath, plucking his glasses off his nose and beginning to buff them against the front of his suit jacket. "_Filth_."


	5. Ooh, actual plottage

Disclaimer: I am still waiting on the rights to Final Fantasy VII. Surprise!

--

By nightfall, Yuffie had turned her Time materia on _all_ of them—Cid for making designs on "her" raft, Aaron for polishing the hull incessantly, and Vincent—well, Vincent just to even things out. Too, at some point during the evening, she'd gotten bored and casted Stop on _herself_; consequently, it was a sorry company indeed that washed up on the shore of a seemingly deserted island as the moon rose.

Frozen, the group could do nothing but fume in silence as the stars twinkled in the night sky and the last remnants of the sunlight died on the western horizon. At one point, a seagull apparently suffering from insomnia took up a roost on one of Cloud's hair spikes; it stayed there for the better part of an hour, preening its feathers and cawing loudly at regular intervals. An indeterminate amount of time later, the tide rolled in, and Vincent, who was, unluckily enough, right up against the coastline to begin with, was toppled over by a particularly strong wave. Aaron was wet and grimed with dirt; Yuffie was dying of boredom; and Cid's cigarette had gone out.

It almost came as a relief when a young couple, apparently intent on finding a good makeout spot, came strolling hand-in-hand up the beach.

"Tom! How about that bush over there?" the woman of the two asked sweetly, lifting a manicured finger and indicating a patch of rather thorny-looking bushes.

"Now, Mandy, we've been through this…that's a briar patch…"

"Mandy" pouted. "Oh, you never listen to my ideas! How do you know it's a briar patch if you haven't gone and laid in it?"

"By the five-inch thorns that are protruding from it at all angles?"

"They could be _decorative_ thorns!"

"Mandy…"

Mandy abruptly stopped walking and clapped a hand over her boyfriend's mouth, letting out a breathless scream of surprise as she sighted the odd entourage. After a moment, however, she laughed. "Look, Tom! Lifelike mannequins!"

The man followed her gaze and blinked. "Well, I'll be!" He wandered closer, crouching down to scrutinise Cid. "But who'd want to make a mannequin of an old fart like this…?"

It was just Tom's misfortune that the Stop spell wore off then. Suffice to say, he was _not_ expecting the "mannequin's" features to contort into an abrupt snarl, nor its hands to fly up and grasp him roughly around the shoulders.

"Old fart?! You wanna say that to my %$^!in' face, huh?"

"Cid! Calm down!" Cloud ordered ineffectually, shaking his head to rid his hair of several fluffy white feathers and chalky seagull droppings. In the background, Aaron, freed of his paralysis, shrieked with rage and launched himself at Yuffie.

"IT'S YOUR FAULT I'M FILTHY! YOURS!"

"Hey!" the ninja yelped, scurrying behind Vincent, who had picked himself up and was wiggling the fingers of his mechanical arm to assure himself that it hadn't shorted out. "Is not!"

"IS TOO!" Aaron bellowed querulously, though he dug his feet into the ground to halt before he smacked into Vincent. "C'MERE, YOU LITTLE NINCOMPOOP!"

"Aaron! Yuffie!" Cloud added helplessly. "Geez! I thought flight attendants were supposed to be _calm_ in situations like this!"

A moment of horrible silence from Aaron, who'd started to circle around the erstwhile Turk to get at Yuffie. "HEAD STEWARD!" the bespectacled youth screeched soon thereafter, affronted. "I TOLD YOU!"

"Whatever!"

A quiet cough from Vincent, surprisingly enough, drew their collective gaze. "May I suggest," he said evenly, "that you cease this before you incite those teenagers to call the local protectorate on us."

Cloud glanced in the direction he'd last seen the adolescents in question, but they'd vanished, having evidently made tracks back in the direction they'd came from.

"You could have _said something before_!" Yuffie snapped, glowering at her impromptu shield. "It's probably already too late for that!"

"FILTH!" Aaron roared, oblivious.

-

Fifteen minutes later, with Cid's Venus Gospel making short work of any plants that got in their way, they were tromping through the rather predictable jungle that bordered the coast. Yuffie had grudgingly permitted Cloud to use one of her weaker Fire materias as a torch to light their way, and, makeshift candle in one hand and borrowed spear in the other, the swordsman broke their path through the thickly-grown underbrush.

"What I don't understand," he began, for at least the third time that evening, "is why the airline confiscated _my_ weapon, but not Cid's. Or Vincent's, for that matter."

Yuffie, second in their single-file line, cackled and patted her shuriken. "I've still got mine! Don't forget my Conformer!"

The blonde scowled, hacking away at a particularly tenacious bush. ".. Cid, I'm sorry, but your weapons _suck_ as machetes," he declared, groaning in exasperation. Cid only shrugged, angrily shredding one of the bottom corners of his cigarette carton. His matches had gotten wet at some point, and he'd consequently been deprived of his precious nicotine since they'd arrived on the island. Suffice to say, this fact was _not_ biding well for his temper, though as withdrawal had well and truly set in he'd quieted somewhat.

Yuffie, meanwhile, had shrugged her weapon into her right hand as Cloud continued to saw ineffectually at the stubborn foliage and sent it flying at the base of the plant with a deft flick of her wrist. Cloud muttered irritably as the shrub toppled feebly to the ground, clearing their way for the next couple of feet, and stomped on.

"I want my Ultima Weapon," he added piteously a moment later.

"Yeah, well, whining ain't gonna bring back swords," Cid snapped, and cast a distraught look at his cigarettes. "Or matches."

At the tail end of the entourage, where he was acting as back guard, Vincent coughed. "Ah, Cid…"

Cid ignored him, stuffing the carton into his pocket and heaving a loud sigh. "Christ! All this nicotine in front of me, and I can't have it!"

"Cid…"

"_What_?!"

".. may I point out that Cloud is at present carrying a perfectly serviceable match in his left hand?"

Said serviceable match sputtered out in the ensuing lunge and scuffle, plunging them—_sans_ Vincent, perhaps—into darkness.

"Well, this is just great," Yuffie complained into the small silence that followed. "Now we can't see! Thanks a lot, Cid!"

"Shut up! Vincent was the one who gave me the $%^*ing idea in the first place!"

"I wasn't intending for you to demolish our only source of illumination when I made the suggestion…"

"Quit talking like that, damnit! You _could_ just say 'I didn't mean for you to put the damn light out,' you know!"

"FILTH!"

"SHADDUP!"

They trudged on, blundering over and through every obstacle in their path, and thrice nearly became separated because they couldn't see more than a few inches ahead of their faces. Yuffie was complaining; Cid was complaining; Cloud was grumbling about his sword; Aaron was shrieking intermittently; and Vincent, still playing the role of the stoic, began to think he would go insane if he had to put up with them for much longer.

"Why's the canopy even so thick, anyway? You can barely see the sky! If it weren't for all those trees we'd be able to see!"

"Look, do _you_ want to turn around and try and find your way back to the beach?"

"No! But I think we should stop for the night."

"Screw that! Some animal'd probably eat us."

"Sleep on the filthy ground? Are you _insane_?"

"… I want my Ultima Weapon."

"We _know_, Cloud. We know."

"Hahah. The _filth_ misses his _weapon of filth_. Filth!"

"… you do a bad impression of Aaron, Cid."

"Oh, what do you know, Goth-Boy?"

"I know that I'm liable to shoot the next person that complains."

Instant silence fell amongst the group, and Vincent heaved an inward sigh of relief, continuing to plow through the underbrush.


End file.
